University of Virginia Library

11. CHAPTER XI.
THE ISLE OF THE SACRIFICE.

—Texan MSS.

The Isle of the sacrifice!'

We stand upon its sandy shore, with the
dark waves, breaking in low murmurs all
around us, the deep night gleaming upon us
from the dark dome, overspread with stars,
San Juan's castle frowning over the waters,
and white Orizaba lowering from afar into the
great temple of the midnight universe.

A strange isle, with its rocks, and sands,
and scattered herbage, stretches before us.—
Three hundred years ago the altar of sacrifice
smoked with his blood-red incense here,
and the groans of the victims echod far over
the waters, as the anointed priest of the faith
of Murder, tore from the mangled breast the
quivering heart.

Even now, beneath this soil, strange chambers
lie hidden, stored with the gods and altars
of the Aztec faith.

Still, from yonder shore, echoes the tramp
of armed men, and through the night the sails
of the American ships gleam like white mists,
hovering over the waters.

Suddenly a half-naked form springs from
the waves and stands erect upon the sand.—
By the dim light of the stars you may discern
the iron outline of that figure, with loose
trowsers clothing it below the waist, while the
sinewy arms, the firm, broad chest, are bared
to the night breeze.

Had you but one gleam of light you would
behold the flesh along the back severed with
many a hideous welt, mangled into one clotted
mass of sores and blood.

This unknown man, springing from the
waters without one sound or word to warn us
of his approach, shakes his huge arms in the
air, and with clenched hands and groaning
utterance, disturbs the silence with words like
these,—

`By— I am free! You shall not scourge
my back again, nor dig your lash into my
flesh once more, though I am but a common
sailor in the American Navy! By — I
would sell my soul to the devil, could I but
have the brave captain of the — here, on
this barren shore for five minutes—only five
minutes! Curses upon that flag,curses upon
its stripes and stars! The stripes for the
common sailor's back—the stars for every
petty tyrant who may buy a commission by
crawling round the avenues of the city of
Washington. I swear as God sees me, to
hate and fight against that flag forever! May
the devil catch me this minute if I would not
like to have it here, and grind it into the sand
beneath my feet.'

The escaped sailor turned from the waves
and steadfastly fixed his eyes upon the barren
isle.

“Twenty paces from the shore, a small
rock of peculiar shape rises from the sand.—
Near Ihat rock your freedom awaits you.'—
What can it mean? To-night, as I lay in
my irons, a paper was pressed into my hand
by a strange man, who whispered, `take this
file—read the paper—and swim to Sacrificios
—I am here, but where's the rock?'

Even as he spoke there rose at his feet a
small rock, triangular in shape, with its surface
covered with uncouth figures, discernible
by the light of the stars. He examined
the rock with a careful and searching scrutiny.

All was silent around: no trace of a human
form was visible.

`I'm prettily fooled!' growled the escaped
sailor with an oath; `but it's my only chance
—here goes.'

With a strong effort he raised the rock
from the sand, or to speak more correctly,
lifted it on one end, and a warm light, streaming
from a square aperture at his feet, bathed
his face, with a ruddy glow. Then it might
be seen that his hair and beard were alike
fiery red in hue, his face embrowned by the
sun and rain, his eyes bleared and swollen,
his teeth revealed by his parting lips—black,
broken and irregular—altogether a hideous
visage.

At his feet, as from a well, streamed that
hidden light, disclosing a rude ladder, whose
top rested against the side of the aperture. In
an instant his huge form was concealed in
the passage, and with his brawny arms he
drew the rock back to its original position
and descended the ladder. Even steps he
counted, and turning his head over his shoulder,
saw that he had entered a small room or
cavern, with a blazing pine-knot attached to
its rocky wall.

In that light, like the crude horrors of some
nightmare dream, he beheld the details of
the place. Three obscene idols, formed of
porphyritic rock, and six feet in height, supported
the ceiling of the cavern. Between
these idols, three black spaces appeared, evidently
passages, leading deeper down into
the subterranean chambers of the Isle of Sacrifice.
On the wall, near the eastern idol, the
pine-knot was hung; by its light the sailor
read the crumpled paper which he drew from
his trowser's pocket.

`To-day you were lashed like a dog, your
flesh peeled from your bones, at the command
of a petty tyrant. Would you be free? Tonight
a file will be placed in your grasp, and
with it directions which will enable you to
seek the company of a jovial band who acknowledge
no lord nor master, save

Without a second thought, the sailor passed
beyond the eastern idol, and measuring his
paces through the darkness—while a chill air
swept against his cheek—soon came to the
stairway, which he descended, and discovered
a light shining around the angle of a rock,

distant from where he stood not more than ten
yards.

He soon reached the rock, and started back
with a shout of wonder mingled with delight.
The rock, a huge and irregular crag, with a
similar crag opposite, formed the doorway to
a chamber some twenty feet square, in the
centre of which stood a table, stored with the
most luscious fruit and viands, mingled with
flasks of wine.

This much, at a glance, the escaped sailor
beheld, but entering the chamber he examined
its minutest details with something of a cold
shudder thrilling every nerve. For around
that table, with a chair at either end, and
spread as if for a banquet, were grouped the
most hideous forms of the ancient Aztec theology,
sculptured in every variety of ugliness,
and looking altogether, with their uncouth
shapes, stony eyes and distorted features,
like the attendant devils of some infernal festival.

The light in the centre of the table, standing
amid fig and oranges, grapes and flowers,
imparted a ruddy warmth to the prominent
points of the idols, while everything beside
was wrapped in misty gloom.

`A devilish queer company,' cried the sailor
as he flung himself in a chair; `but the
wine bottles look tempting, and the cold ham
is not to be `sneezed at'—particularly by a
common sailor, who has not tasted food for
twelve hours! Ha! champaigne, as I'm a
sinner—pop! How the sound of that cork
makes them stare—these respectable gentlemen,
with the stony eyes and peculiarly ugly
faces. A slice of ham, a biscuit, and another
pull at the champaigne bottle. I feel quite
comfortable, by —'

It would require the pencil of some artist
who delights in the grotesque and horrible to
picture this scene.

Relieved by the dark background, the burly
face of the sailor, framed in red hair and
beard, stood boldly out in the light. In one
hand a champaigne bottle, in the other a slice
of ham inserted between two biscuits. His
huge form is comfortably disposed in the arm
chair, and his broad chest begins to swell
and heave with the fiery impulse of the
wine.

Above, the rocky ceiling, and around the
table those distorted forms and uncouth faces,
looking like living things as the light flit
to and fro over the dusky outlines.

One figure towers above the rest; a dim
shape of dark-red stone, with a knife of obsidian,
or volcanic glass, extended in its deformed
right arm. It is the Aztec war-god,
Mexitili.

And here, where the priests of the forgotten
creed administered their bloody rites 300
years ago, now sits the escaped slave of the
American Navy making merry, with the wine
bottle in his hand, while his roystering catch
is echoed far along the gloomy recesses of the
cavern.

It was a strange song that he sung, and
seemed to have some bearing upon a murder
done at sea by a captain of the American
Navy,—

And then three cheers for God were given.

With some dozen more doggrel verses of
blasphemous tenor, the escaped sailor plyed
the wine bottle until the Aztec gods seemed
dancing round him and leering in his face with
their stony eyes.

Then crowning his brow with a wreath of
blossoms snatched from the table, he gravely
drank the health of the idols, one by one,
terming them `all good fellows of the right
stripe, though, d—n it! they needn't make
such ugly faces.'

The wine which he drank seemed not so
much to cheer as to madden him. He felt it,
burning like molten fire in every vein, and
encircling his brain as with a mass of liquid
light.

Whether from his long fast or the peculiar
effect of the wine, we cannot decide, but
wherever he turned his head he saw the cold
face of a dead man, who glared upon him,
with eyes like glass, as his body hung suspended
to an oaken limb.

That quivering oaken limb, that cold white
dead man's face was everywhere, now among
the idol forms, now moving slowly overhead,
now seen in the centre of the table, the limb
always trembling, the face always white, dead
and ghastly.

Yet this sight did not strike the drunken
sailor with anything like fear. He drank only
the more, shouted the louder, and trolled as
he danced around the table, his doggrel song,
until the nooks and corners of the cavern-room
seemed yelling on with the echo of a
hundred voices.

At last, whether it was a reality or but part
of his drunken dream, we know not, but he
suddenly became aware of the presence of a
new guest, a tall man, dressed in deep black,
a veil upon his face, shrouding his features
from view,

`Would you,' said a voice of full and manly
intonation, `would you become one of
us?'

`That depends pretty much on who you
are and what you follow.'

And the drunkard staggered to the chair,
endeavering to clear his eyes from the fiery
mist which danced before them.

`We are a band of brothers, who, gathering
our taxes from the land sea, have turned
this war to our own uses. We have gathered
our members from the oppressed in the army
and navy of the United States. We have a
three-fold object—security, plunder and revenge—will
you join us?'

`I will, hoss!' cried the sailor, falling into
the slang which he had acquired, years ago,
in the prairies of the west. `Jist show me a
chance now.'

`But you are afraid to take our oath? You
will shudder at the initiation of the Independent
order of Free Rangers.'

The sailor started to his feet, leaned over
the table, and while his bloodshot eyes rolled
in frenzy, grinned until his discolored teeth
were visible, as he uttered an oath too horrible
for repetition.

`I don't care much what yer oath is; I'm
a Royal Arch Curser myself—I am. And as
to yer Initiation, tell me, what kin a man fear
who has been lashed like a dog on board a
free American ship of war? Show me a
chance I say, and let me but stand free to
face with the captain of the —; only for a
minute—O, only for a minute!'

`Wait here, and in one hour you will be
summoned by a brother of our order. He
will lead you to the altar, where your courage
will be tried; for as our lives will hang upon
your fidelity, it is important that we know
what manner of man you are before we admit
you into our brotherhood. Remember—in
half an hour prepare.'

The figure in black disappeared behind the
image of the war god, Mexitili.

Half an hour passed away. The cavern
no lodger rang with shouts of boisterous merriment;
the viands were no longer eagerly
devoured, nor the bottles emptied with mad
rapidity.

Along the table, heaped in inextricable
confusion, were scattered wreaths of blossoms,
slices of ham. biscuits, bottles, oranges,
figs and flowers; but the drunken sailor, who
with the print of the Free American Lash on
his back, reeled here an hour ago, singing
blasphemous songs, where is he now.

In the arm chair at the head of the table
behold him, his shock red hair and beard presenting
a frightful contrast to his face, which
is now as pale as a corse.

He is a very strong man, and yet now he
trembles from head to foot, his bloodshot eyes
neither turn to the right or left but glare fixedly
before him.

Why this paleness, this trembling, this unknown
fear?

A deep groan is heard.

`I believe that my heart is burning to a cinder
within me. My temple throbs as though
the pendulum of a clock were enclosed in my
skull. I cannot drink any more—I tremble;
I am hot and cold by turns. Ah! who's
there?—who's that repeating my name?'

`Ewen McGregor!' called a voice from the
recesses of the cavern; `do you still desire
to enter the brotherhood?'

`I do,' faltered the sailor.

`Then come hither.'

He arose, tottered along the cavern until
the darkness enclosed him. A cold breeze
swept against his cheek. There was a hand
pressed upon his own—why did he turn cold
as that hand touched his fingers?

`Advance twenty steps with me. Take this
knife and obey.'

He took the knife and was led forward in
the darkness until the folds of a curtain brushed
his face.

`Within the chamber, shrouded by this curtain,
lies your victim, bound to the altar of
the Aztec faith, as they bound their victims
three hundred years ago. Do not fear—do
not tremble, but think of the lashes you received
this day, and, without lifting the veil
which conceals the face, strike home. Enter
and obey.'

Why did the brain of the stout-hearted
sailor suddenly feel as though all the blood
in his Herculean frame had rushed into his
skull?

He grasped the knife and dashed the curtain
aside.